


The Miracle Doctor (Hiatus)

by pixieheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Brotherly feels, Destiel - Freeform, Hospital, M/M, PTSD, SPN - Freeform, The Miracle Doctor, mechanic!Dean, paralyzed!Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-03 11:58:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4100137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixieheart/pseuds/pixieheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is almost two years sober after a tragic car accident left his little brother paralyzed. Between struggling to pay the bills and watching Sam waste away in a hospital bed, he’s nearly at his breaking point. Then he hears the rumors. Word around Lawrence is that there is a new doctor in town: one that can rid of any sickness, cure any disease, and mend any injury. Desperate and determined, Dean sets off to find the only doctor who can save his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blue

 

     Dean hates the color blue.

     Blue was the color of his childhood bedroom where he spent countless nights listening to his father’s drunken stupor downstairs.

     Blue was the color of the pickup truck that collided with a certain 1967 Chevy Impala at 11:23 PM on November 4, 2013.

     Blue is the color of the walls in Sam’s permanent hospital room, the color of the rough pale sheets on his bed, and the color of his arms when they stick him with another IV.

     Blue just happened to be the color of the hospital bills that were quickly stacking up on the kitchen counter.

     Dean would occasionally glance through them, solemnly adding up numbers in his head before slamming the papers back down and storming into the other room. He was still fighting to keep his shitty one bedroom apartment, but the bills outnumbered the checks. There were only so many hours he could work at Bobby's Auto Clinic, and the measly eight dollars an hour was hardly enough to support himself, much less take care of the outstanding bills gathering on his countertop.

     But he did what he could.

 

 

     Sam Winchester was put into a drug-induced coma for several days after the accident. The doctors attempted reconstructive surgery on his spine, but it was unsuccessful. The nerves had been spliced; the muscles split open like a banana peel. His spine was unrepairable. The extent of his paralysis would be determined when he awoke, they told Dean.

     It would be a miracle if he could move at all, they warned him.

 

 

     When Sam awoke, he was dazed and confused and everything else a young man was expected to be when he had just woken up from a coma. His brother was beside him, a worried expression screwed onto his face.

     “What happened?” he asked.

     “An accident,” the doctor explained.

     “I can’t feel my toes,” Sam continued.

     “Sammy-” Dean began.

     “I can’t feel my legs!” Sam shouted, but he threw his arms up in the air with surprise.

     The boy wouldn’t understand at that time, but it was a miracle indeed.

 

 

     When Sam was stable, the doctors offered to release him back home. Home for Sam Winchester was a one bedroom apartment on the seventh floor of a city complex. Unfortunately, it was not wheelchair friendly. Dean offered to find a ground level apartment somewhere for the both of them, but his brother politely declined the offer. Even Sam knew that caring for a paraplegic would be too difficult for one man alone.

     Instead, he insisted that Dean rent out his unusable apartment and use the money for bills so he could remain in the hospital. There were comfortable rooms on the fifth floor where patients could stay for extended amounts of time; complete with round the clock staff and complimentary sponge baths. Sam’s neighbors were all elderly folk who sometimes screamed in the middle of the night and wandered the halls naked, but he got used to them.

    

 

     Dean comes to visit almost every single day, even if he hasn't washed up or changed into a pair of jeans that aren’t covered in motor oil. He's dedicated, the nurses said. Sam had been in the same hospital room for two years and Dean came almost every single day, rain or shine.

     Despite being paralyzed below the waist, Sam never lost his spirit. "At least you're taller than me now," he had joked from the height of his wheelchair.  Dean did not laugh.

     The twenty-five year old spends his days watching cartoon reruns on the TV and reading countless stacks of books. Every Friday, Dean goes to the library and spends hours looking for new authors that his brother might enjoy. By the next week, Sam would have finished every book Dean handed him and was itching for a new one.

     After work each day, Dean stays with his brother until visiting hours are over: promptly nine o’clock each evening, and seven o’clock on Sundays. He always promises to come back the next day, and he always gives Sam a long hug before going home to start the routine over again. Tuesdays were the only exception.

 

 

     On Tuesdays, Dean attends an AA meeting on the first floor of an Episcopal church down the street. He doesn’t like going, but he promised his brother that he would go every Tuesday, and that’s what he does. Even when he feels physically sick and wants nothing more than to climb into bed or watch an old movie with Sam, he gets in the car and drags himself to the AA meeting, because that’s what he had promised Sam.

 

 

     Lawrence City Hospital has a strict non-smoking policy, for the reason that some patients are allergic to cigarette smoke and it's simply a bad image. In Dean’s opinion, it’s simply committing lung suicide. When he sees a fellow meandering around the waiting room with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, he's disgusted and irritated at the same time. It was a rough day at the shop, he forgot to pay his cell phone bill, and some bird had taken a massive shit on the hood of his car. Dean wasn't about to give the stranger any patience.

     They are alone in the waiting room, both likely waiting for someone to return to the front desk.

     "Hey, asshole. You should have some respect for yourself and put that out." he snaps.

     The stranger turns his head and fixes a set of cold blue eyes on him. The cigarette, ashes forming neatly at the end, falls right out of his mouth.

     "Excuse me?"

     "You heard me. Just because you don't care about your own lungs doesn't mean the rest of us don't." Dean stuffs his hands into his pockets and averts his eyes away from the stranger's stare. "Some of us like breathing clean air, buddy. Take your poison sticks somewhere else."

     The fellow pauses, reaches down to scoop up his cigarette, and sweeps the ashes across the carpet with his foot to clear them away. There is a hesitant sort of smile on his face.

     "I see. Is there anything else you'd like to get off your chest?" he offers. Dean scoffs.

     "Yeah. Smoking kills."

     Memories of endless afternoons under a hot sun flood his mind; images of push mowers and toolboxes and beat up old cars in the driveway. He remembers the way his old man would sit on the rickety front porch and point out the uneven parts of the lawn, telling his son that it had to be redone. He remembers the cigarette that hung out of his father's mouth, and the cold beer in his hand, gathering drops of condensation in the intense heat while Dean sweat.

     He remembers working for hours on the beat up Chevy, only to have his old man beat in the hood with a baseball bat and tell him to fix it again. He remembers the cigarette hanging out of his father's mouth then, and the cigarette that his father put out on the leather seat of the Impala. There was still a permanent scorch mark from the blazing embers.

     He remembers the pungent and putrid smell of cigarette smoke in the two-story home. It was always there, staining his sheets and clothes with the unwelcomed scent so he could never truly escape it, even outside the house.

     He remembers a man in a yellow coat talking to a fifteen year old boy in the dancing light of hungry, lapping flames. The man said that a cigarette had started the fire that ate his home.

     Dean snaps back to the present and the stranger is still staring at him. Before either of them can speak, the nurse interrupts by calling his name to the front desk.

 

 

     Every day, Dean takes his brother on a walk around the facility. Sam particularly enjoys the courtyard, where the sidewalk is always sweeped and the flowers never die. When it rains, Dean holds an umbrella over his brother's head and walks anyway. Sam doesn't have to say he appreciates it, because Dean knows that he does.

     Today, it is not raining. In fact, there is not a cloud in the sky to shield the mid-July rays. It was the perfect day for a walk.

     Dean grips twin sponge handles and pushes Sam's wheelchair through the automatic doors, out of the hospital AC and into the scorching sun. Sam let's out an audible sigh of relief, and his brother smiles.

     "It sucks being stuck in there all day," he says as he plays with a band aid on his forearm. "I almost forget what season it is."

     The elder Winchester nods and strolls along the sidewalk path at a pace Sam enjoyed.

     "How was work?" Sam continues. He asks the same question every day.

     "It was work," Dean answers, because he always responds the same way.

     The brothers walked in silence for a few minutes; Sam admiring the scenery and Dean lost in his own train of thought.

     "Dean, I've been thinking-"

     A pause.

"You spend all of your free time here."

     Another pause.

     Confirmation.

     "Well, yeah. You're my brother. I'm sure as hell not just going to leave you here." There was annoyance in his tone. Irritability. Unease.

     "Of course not." Sam lowers his voice. "But outside of work and coming here, you don't do much of anything. When is the last time you saw Benny?"

     Dean bites back a lie. He hadn't seen Benny in over a year. They had once been close.

     "What about the last time you even went out to see a movie?" Sam presses on. "Don't get me wrong, Dean. I love that you come and see me every day. But it's not healthy."

     "You know what else isn't healthy?" Dean grumbles. "Being confined to a stupid hospital bed for the rest of your life."

     “I don’t care.” Sam shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t want you to throw your life away because of me.”

     The older Winchester freezes. His knuckles are white from gripping the handles.

     “Is that what you think I’m doing?” he demands. “Throwing my life away?” Sam looks down at his lap and frowns, intimidated by his brother’s passive aggression. Dean walks in front of the mobile chair and crouches down, taking Sam’s scrawny hands into his own. “Sammy, you listen to me.” He commands his brother’s attention with the fierce grip on his fingers. “I will never forgive myself for what happened to you. You can’t walk away from that accident, and neither can I.”

     Green eyes fixed on hazel ones.

     The conversation was over.

 

 

     It’s Tuesday.

     Dean sits in the front seat of the Impala, fingers tapping idly against the steering wheel to the beat of his favorite Led Zeppelin song on the radio. He mouths the words, staring at the building in front of him. Churches were interesting to Dean. By no means was he a religious person, although curiosity had crossed his mind from time to time. Other than the weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, there was absolutely no reason for Dean to be sitting in front of a nicely restored Episcopal church, on a humid Tuesday evening.

     The church is only a short drive from the hospital. Dean has been sitting in the parking lot for several minutes, staring blankly at the stone steps leading up the hill. He watches fellow alcoholics leave their vehicles and head for the door. Some of them take longer than others, dragging their feet across the ground,  as if they dread the meetings as much as Dean does. He sucks in a breath of air and turns off the car.

    

 

     “Hey, I’m Dean.” The man drags his palm across the stubble on his jaw, greeting the rest of the group in a monotone voice.

     “Hello, Dean.” The group answers him in a chorus of tones; soprano and bass. There are no unfamiliar faces in the circle tonight.

     “My last drink was November fourth of twenty thirteen,” he states. A few people clap encouragingly, and the pastor gives him a wrinkled smile.

     “Good job, Dean," the pastor says. “You’re doing very well. Why don’t you tell us a little about this week?”

     Dean sits quietly, feeling as if he were a shy child in a room of adults. There are several pairs of eyes watching him, but he knows better than to believe they are judging him. One of the men is picking scabs from his arms. Another smells as if he hasn’t showered in weeks. No one here judges anyone else, except perhaps Dean, who decided during his first meeting that he was _nothing_ like these people.

     “Dean?” the pastor prompts him.

     The blond forces a smile across his face. This is about the time he makes up a bullshit story of an irritable customer or a car that was particularly hard to fix. Today, he’s not feeling so creative.

     “I’m getting plenty of hours at work.” He opens his mouth to continue, but stops himself short when he realizes he has nothing more to say. “I feel fine,” he lies.

     “What about your brother? Sam?” The pastor bribes him with an encouraging wave of his hand. Dean’s fingers tighten up. It was amazing how he remembered the smallest details of everyone’s personal lives, whether it be names or what the brand of beer they slipped up on three months ago.

     “He’s the same he was last week.” Dean feels snarky as he answers. “And the week before that, and the week before that, and the week before that. There’s only so much a kid can do when he’s confined to a wheelchair, right?” The pastor’s face darkens and he blinks slowly.

     “The Lord cares about your troubles, Dean. We will say a word of prayer your brother,” he murmurs. “Dear Heavenly Father. Please watch over Sam Winchester. Allow him to feel your touch and heal him from the-”

     Dean ignores the rest. He hears it every Tuesday. The same words of prayer directed towards the “Heavenly Father” that Dean was somehow supposed to be grateful for. The “Lord” that was supposed to care about his troubles. _What about Sam’s troubles? What about the fact that my little brother can’t fucking walk?_

     The first couple of times, he had felt an emotional tug at his heart; there was something about a stranger praying for his brother’s health that felt unnatural to him and oddly comforting. After a while, that tug went away. The pastor’s empty prayers couldn’t save his brother’s legs. God couldn’t save his brother’s legs. It had been easier to accept it sooner than later.

     The pastor finished with a quiet “Amen” before turning to the next forsaken recovering alcoholic in the room.

    

 

     Dean slides into an empty booth seat, staring at the opposing end of the table as if he was expecting someone else to sit down. It’s almost closing hour. The only other customer in Johnny Mac’s Diner is a middle-aged bearded man with a biker jacket on the back of his chair and a “Mom” tattoo on his bicep. He’s tearing into a thick burger, occasionally wiping off his mouth with a napkin. In the kitchen, minimum wage teenagers wash dishes to the beat of a muted pop song. Dean can hear it when the doors swing back and forth.

     “What’s a guy like you doing here all by yourself?” the waitress asks with a wiggle of her brow and the ever so subtle pout of her lip. Her attempts at flirting were valiant, but unsuccessful.

     He doesn’t know why he chose to visit Johnny Mac’s Diner at eleven o’clock, but here he was, eyes glazing over the menu.

     “I’ll have the double bacon cheeseburger, a side of fries, and a vanilla milkshake,” he tells her firmly, brushing off her flirtation. She lets out a huff of air and scribbles his order on a notepad before disappearing into the back. A popular song came and went with the swinging of the kitchen doors.

     A few minutes later, the biker slams a tip on the table and leaves.

     Dean pretends to act fascinated in the decor of the Lawrence diner while he waits for his food. The waitress eyes him from across the restaurant after sliding a tall vanilla shake in front of him. A minimum wage dishwasher pokes his head irritably out of the swinging kitchen doors, itching to go home. The milkshake is delicious, but there’s no cherry.

     The bell over the door chimes and another man walks in. Dean doesn't bother to glance up. He doesn't have to. A moment later, the stranger seats himself across from Dean.

     "What the hell?" Dean demands with genuine confusion. The stranger removes his tan overcoat and folds it neatly next to him. It was the smoker from the hospital.

     "Hello, Dean." He introduces himself casually, as if the two were close friends. They stare at each other, and Dean is speechless. He wants to ask the stranger how he knows his name. He wants to ask the stranger why he sat down in the empty seat as if he was an old friend. He also wants to ask if the stranger had followed him from the hospital, until he remembered that he had gone to the meeting afterwards, and he was certain the stranger hadn’t been there too.

     His eyes were so _blue._

     “What are you doing, man?” he finally blurts out. Normal people didn’t just sit next to strangers and greet them on a first name basis.

     “Sitting, I believe.” The stranger’s voice isn’t the least bit sarcastic. “Contemplating on ordering a burger. I hear this diner has a nice selection, but I’ve never been here. What would you suggest?”

     Dean stares at him in disbelief.

     "Don't you think it's a little weird sitting down to eat with someone you've never met?" Dean leans back in his seat, putting as much distance between him and the stranger as possible.

     "But we have met, Dean." The stranger raises his brow. The man shifts uncomfortably, wondering how the _hell_ this weirdo is being so calm.

     "No, I'm pretty sure we haven't." Dean crosses his arms, and the stranger keeps his gaze steady. "Are you talking about back there, in the hospital? Because that sure as hell wasn't a formal invitation to eat dinner with me."

     The waitress returns, asking the stranger if he's ready to order. Her irritation is easy to see. It is after closing time, after all. To Dean's curiosity, the stranger declines, and the waitress returns to the back room. Dean clears his throat.

     "Alright, you didn't come here to eat, so get to the point. Why are you harassing me?"

     The stranger's eyes widen and he looks genuinely confused.

     "Harassing? I'm terribly sorry. I didn't know you felt so strongly about my presence." He stands, bows his head in a quick apology, and turns to leave.

     Dean reaches out and grabs the man's sleeve before he can think about it.

     "Hold on," he says. "Not so fast. The ball is in my court now, buddy. You're not just going to come in here and sit down without an explanation. Tell me how you knew my name."

     The stranger slowly sinks back into his chair, and Dean does the same.

     "Dean Winchester. The nurse called your name today, in the waiting room. I couldn't help but to overhear."

     "Alright..." Dean takes another gulp of his milkshake. The whipped cream has melted and it's lukewarm now. "That doesn't explain why you're here. Did you follow me?"

     To his dismay, the stranger nods his head. Dean feels sick to his stomach, and suddenly a burger doesn't sound so good.

     "Why?" he mouths.

     At that moment, the waitress returns and sets a towering double bacon cheeseburger in front of Dean, topped with a pile of French fries.

     "You sure you don't want anything sweetheart?" she asks the stranger in a forced politeness.

     "No thank you, Angela," he responds without even a glance towards the girl's name tag. She leaves, and the two men are left alone once again.

     Dean can't force himself to take a bite out of his nine dollar burger.

     "Why did you follow me?" he repeats with a malicious tone. "Tell me right now, or I'm calling the cops."

     The stranger seems unphased by the threat of law enforcement. His expression remains calm; his posture collected.

     "I wanted to apologize for earlier." he says. Dean sucks in a breath of air, unsure how to proceed.

     "Dude... You expect me to believe that you followed me around all day so you could show up at a sketchy diner in the middle of the night and _apologize_ for smoking in the waiting room of a hospital?"

     "Whether you choose to believe it or not, that is my reasoning."

     Silence.

     Finally, Dean gathers the burger in his hands and takes a bite. It isn't as satisfying as he'd hoped.

     "Yeah, right."

     "Why else would I be here, Dean?" The stranger tilts his head like a damn puppy. Secrets hiding behind eyes of innocence.

     "Hell, I don't know. Identity theft? If you're planning to rob me, I'm afraid there's not much for you to take."

     He takes another massive bite of hamburger.

     "Dean, if I was planning to steal from you, I would have done so when you were sitting by yourself in a dark parking lot. What could I possibly gain from attacking you here, in public?" Dean couldn't argue with his logic, but it still didn't make sense.

     "You followed me to the church," he whispers.

     "I was waiting for the right time to confront you," he answers. "I apologize if I've come on too strongly. That is not my intention."

     "What _is_ your intention, man?" Dean smothers his fries with ketchup. "What the hell do you want?"

     "I told you, Dean. I wanted to apologize."

     "Yeah, well, apology not accepted." Dean digs into his pocket and pulls out some crumpled dollar bills, tossing them down on the table. Half of a burger and a handful of fries doesn't mean much to him when he's evading a possible predator. Even if this guy was just trying to be nice, he had an awful creepy way of doing it. "Don't follow me again."

     They both stand up.

     "Please, wait," the stranger pleads, and for the first time, his calm charade has faded. Dean pauses, waiting for him to go on. "Do you believe in the Lord?"

     Dean scoffed loudly.

     "Dude, if you're one of those Jehovah's witnesses-"

     "Dean." Something about the man's voice cuts his vocal cords. The stranger steps out from the booth and reaches across the table to take Dean's hands. If he wasn't so confused by the whole damn situation, he might have yanked them back. As it was, he allows the man to hold his hands between them.

     Green eyes meet blue like the land met the sea.

     "You're a special man, Dean Winchester, and you are very important. Please don't forget that."

     In all of his life, Dean had never heard such words. Dean was brave and stubborn and hardheaded. He was snarky and rude and sometimes he was an asshole. Some people had called him hot. Once or twice, he'd been called handsome. Never before had anyone called him _special_ or _important_.

     As they stared at one another in a deafening silence, Dean realized that for the first time in his life, he found himself admiring the beauty of the color blue.


	2. Distraction

     “Something about you is different today,” says Bobby. “You feelin’ alright?”

     Bobby Singer is three things to Dean: his boss, his friend, and his substitute father. When the old house burned down, Bobby was the one to watch over the boys until they found their footing on life. For that, Dean was eternally grateful. Bobby was everything a father should have been, despite having no children of his own.

     After the accident, Bobby helped pay for the initial reconstructive surgery. When it proved to be unsuccessful, he did the only thing he could and gave Dean a full time position at his auto clinic. He knew that the young man was too stubborn to accept any other hospitality. Sometimes Bobby knew Dean better than Dean knew himself.

      If he was acting strange, Bobby would be the first one to notice it.

     Work at the auto clinic was slow, which was typical for the middle of the week. After doing an oil change and swapping out tires on an old Honda, Dean finds himself leaning lazily against the hood of the car. He stares across the garage at nothing in particular and is startled when the elder man addresses him.

     “I’m fine, Bobby.” His voice is firm and certain, though his eyes tell a different story.

     “Don’t lie to me, boy,” Bobby warns him with a wave of his index finger. “I know you. Is it Sam?"

     Dean lifts his head. Sam's words from the previous day had caught him off guard, but that wasn't why he was distracted. His brother had called him out before. No, he was thinking about Castiel.

 

 

     The stranger introduced himself before the diner staff had all but tossed them out the door.

     "My name is Castiel," he said. "Please, allow me to pay for your meal." The man was already pulling out his wallet to replace Dean's crumpled up money. "As an apology for upsetting you." Dean was no idiot. If a man in a trench coat offered to pay for his dinner, he was damn well going to accept it. He grabbed his cash and stuffed it back into his pockets.

     "Fine, Castiel. What kind of name is that, anyway?" Dean popped a final fry into his mouth and finished off his milkshake with a suckling noise. "Are you satisfied? I accept your stupid apology. Just don't light up a cancer stick in a public place. It's common courtesy."

     Castiel shrugged his shoulders and headed for the door. Dean was not surprised when he walked straight to the Impala. If he had been followed all afternoon, of course the guy knew what car he drove. His chills were replaced with annoyance.

     "What gives? You expecting a ride home or something?" He looked around the parking lot. There were no vehicles that hadn't been there when he pulled in. "How'd you get here, dude?"

     Castiel stood next to the Impala and blatantly ignored his question.

     "You have a beautiful vehicle," he complimented.

     "Damn right, and she's not for sale." Dean unlocked his car and climbed in, slamming the door behind him. He turned on the vehicle with a pleasing rumble and rolled down the window just enough to talk to the man. "Look, I don't care who you are, or what you're trying to sell, but I'm not buying it. Have a good night." Dean rolled the window back up and jerked the car into gear, rolling right out of the parking lot and leaving the blue eyed man standing in his rear view mirror.

     

 

     "Maybe you ought to take the rest of the day off." Bobby suggests. "That doesn't meango straight to the hospital, either. Why don't you go home... read a book or somethin'. You could use a day-"

     "I said I'm fine, Bobby." Dean's voice was sharp. Irritable. He was tired of people telling him to slow down and smell the roses. "I need the hours." The elder shakes his head and gathers up a stack of paperwork in his arms.

     "Suit yourself."

     Dean goes back to work. There's a 1970 Corvette parked in the back lot in need of a new radiator.

 

 

     Dean doesn't think about Castiel for the rest of the day. Six o'clock rolls around and he clocks out with a can of Mountain Dew in one hand and his cell phone in the other. It's been sitting in his back pocket for the last eight hours, but he notices that the battery is about to die. Grunting, he shoves it back into his pocket and looks around for his keys.

     Bobby went home at five, leaving him to lock up the shop. Dean is tired. He hardly slept the night before; his dreams plagued with brilliant blue eyes and the unmistakable stench of cigarette smoke. The young mechanic rubs across his eyes with the back of his sleeve and chugs down the rest of his soda. The hospital is a half-hour drive down the highway and the mere thought of sitting in daily traffic makes him lethargic. He kicks the empty can across the cement and reaches over his head to pull the garage door down.

     Exhaustion almost convinced him to drive home rather than go back to Lawrence City Hospital, but Dean chooses his brother over the idea of sleep and takes that left turn onto the highway.

 

 

     Sam has his nose buried in a book when Dean enters the room.

     "Hey, Dean." He sounds unsurprised to see his brother. Dean sets his keys on the end table and takes a seat.

     "What're you reading?" Dean asks.

     "I started that new Stephen King you borrowed for me. It's good so far, but not really scary. Not like _It._ " Sam marks his page with a bookmark and closes up the beaten up novel, setting it aside.

     "You never did like clowns," his older brother laughs softly, but it feels empty. He's distracted, and it's obvious. Sam catches on immediately. There's a short silence between them.

     "How was work?" he asks, like he does every day.

     "It was work." Dean answers mindlessly. Another pause. The silence is suspenseful.

     "Alright. Here's the thing." Sam straightens his shoulders and wiggles himself around like he's about to say something important. There's concern written across his face and Dean is oblivious to it. "Dean, I don't want to see you tonight."

     Dean's heart clenches as if there is an iron fist squeezing it out of proportion.

     "What?" he gasps. His mind begins to race, and his lips can't move fast enough. "Sammy, come on. I come see you pretty much every day."

     "That's just it," Sam sighs, running his fingers through his messy, tangled hair. "It's too much." The older Winchester holds his breath while Sam searches for the right words. "It's not good for you, man. Look at yourself. You've got bags under your eyes. When is the last night you had some decent sleep?"

     Dean scrunches up his brow and opens his mouth to argue, but Sam beats him to it.

     "Don't try to tell me that you're fine, Dean. You're not. Stop trying to take care of me and take care of yourself for once." Sam lifts a hand and points to the door. "I want you to go home and get some sleep. You're going to make yourself sick... and then what? How are you going to work if you've let yourself get ill?" It's a rhetorical question, and Dean doesn't answer. "Look. I'm good here. I've got plenty of things to keep me occupied." Sam takes a steady breath. "You won't listen to me when I ask nicely, so I have to be rude. Go home, Dean."

     With a disgruntled look over his shoulder, that is exactly what Dean Winchester did.

 

 

     Dean forgot what sunlight looked like in his apartment. He is used to coming home at ten o'clock most evenings and eight o'clock on Sundays. Today it is a Wednesday and the sun is still up. He feels like a stranger in his own home.

     He kicks off his boots and heads to the kitchen to wash motor oil and grime from his hands.

     The sun blinds him from the kitchen window, and he grunts accordingly.

     Across the kitchen, the tiny light on the telephone flashes green with a new voicemail. Dean acknowledges it, but doesn't care enough to listen.

     Following his brother's instructions, he decides to take a shower and go to bed early. Dean turns on the radio to his favorite classic rock station and starts to strip off his dirty clothes. The pile is growing taller in the corner of his bedroom, reminding him to do laundry soon. Sunday was a good day to do laundry, but he isn't going to make it four more days at this rate.

     Bobbing his head to a Golden Earring rift, Dean makes his way to the bathroom. The shower is cramped and the water has two settings: ice cold and scalding hot. He settles for scalding hot and let's the room steam up before stepping in.

     The shower is short but enjoyable. His back is pink from the steamy water and he decides against putting a shirt on afterwards. His throat is hoarse from singing Metallica in the acoustics of the bathroom. Feeling idle, he paces back to the kitchen in his boxers and looks around for a snack.

     The phone still flashes on the wall, but he is ignorant. A peanut butter sandwich later, he walks past the phone and heads for bed. The sun is just starting to set over the horizon.

 

 

     A good night of sleep did well for the troubled young man. When morning rolled around, he felt revived and energized. The bags beneath his eyes had faded and he felt better than he had in months. Unfortunately, he had slept right past his alarm for work.

     Dean is in a full fledged state of panic. It was ten thirty and he was supposed to be at work an hour and a half ago. He trips over dirty clothes and can't find his car keys. His cell phone, probably dead from the night before, is nowhere to be found. A stream of curse words is flowing steadily from his mouth.

     To make the morning worse, Dean is halfway to work when he slams the quarter panel of his car into a deer.

     "Son of a bitch!" He pulls off the road and hops out to assess the damage. The right side of his bumper is hanging off and one of the headlights is busted. The quarter panel is crumpled inwards like a tin can. Dean slams his hand onto the hood. He knows he can't afford to fix it. Not the proper way, anyway. He knows how, but a new bumper is pricy and the materials (including a paint touch up) are far out of his budget.

     "Sorry, Baby," Dean mutters.

     The damn deer ran right into the road. If he hadn't swerved, it could have gone through the windshield. He tries to be thankful, but he's got enough on his mind and it was his _car._ His _baby._

     As it is, he has a deer with a broken backbone convulsing on the side of the pavement. Dean digs in his pocket for his cell phone, dismayed when he realizes it isn't there.

     _Oh right._

His phone is dead and buried somewhere under a pile of dirty clothes. With no way to call the police and the animal having a seizure in front of him, Dean scratches the back of his head. It feels wrong to let an animal suffer, but he doesn't have a gun in the car. He could rip the rest of his bumper off and beat the deer in the head, but that sounded gruesome.

     He glances at his watch. Eleven o'clock. He's two hours late for work. Bobby has probably left him more than one concerned voicemail on his dead cell phone.

     "It's your fault for running out in front of me," he grumbles to the deer. "You could have run back to all your little deer friends and had a grand old time. Now I've got a broken bumper and you've got a broken spine."

     The road is not busy. Several minutes pass before a car drives by, and despite Dean's attempts to wave it down, the vehicle disappears over the hill. By this time, the deer has quieted. Its hind legs occasionally twitch, but the convulsing has stopped. Its tiny black eyes seem to fixate on him and Dean is forced to look away.

     Another car drives past. Dean leans against the side of the car, contemplating the idea of going to work after this.

_Bobby said I should take a day off._

Dean presses his fingertips against his temple and rubs to keep a headache at bay. The energy from his good night of rest has left him in the form of adrenaline.

     The sound of another engine rumbles closer. Dean waits for it to fade off in the other direction, but the noise stops abruptly nearby. He lowers his hands and looks up, flabberghast at who he saw.

     A familiar man with raven dark hair steps out of the vehicle. There is a cigarette between his lips.

 

 

     "How long ago was the impact?" Castiel murmurs as he crouches beside the wounded animal. His cigarette lay abandoned on the pavement nearby.

     "At least ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Fuck, I don't know." Dean is too frustrated to ask why the strange man from last night had conveniently been passing down the same road, or why he was conveniently the only person to stop and help. "I moved it off the road. Thought it might be more comfortable or something."

     The deer is trembling madly, its eyes wide with fear. Its body lay in a patch of grass and leaves to the side of the road.

     Castiel runs his hand down the deer's spine.

     "Do you even know what you're doing? The back is broken. There's nothing we can do," Dean barks. "Can't you just use your phone to call the cops?"

     "I do not have a cell phone." Castiel responds softly. His hands find a bulge in the deer's spine. Dean groans and covers his face.

     "You've got to be kidding me. The only person who stops to help and you don't even have a damn cell-"

     There is a rustling noise. Dean barely has the chance to move his hands  before the deer shoots up and charges past both of them, galloping across the road and into the woods on the other side. For a brief moment, he is speechless.

     Castiel picks up his cigarette and climbs to his feet.

     "What was _that_?" Dean shouts, pointing at the place where the deer had previously lay paralyzed.

     "I suppose the spine wasn't broken after all." The man purses his lips, taking a drag off his Marlboro. He hardly looks phased by the abrupt reanimation of the deer.

     "Like hell it wasn't! Look at my car! Look at the blood on the road! I dragged that thing all the way over here and you want to tell me it was fine? How the hell..." he trails off, shaking his head vigorously. It was too fucking weird. It didn't make sense. He knew what he saw, but there was no way that deer was physically able to get up and take off like it did. "You know what? I don't even care. You-" He jams a finger into Castiel's chest. "-tell me what you're doing here."

     "You seemed to require assistance," he answers. "I happened to be passing by, and-"

     "Oh, yeah right. You were following me again, weren't you? What are you, some kind of stalker?"

     "I assure you, I was not following you."

     Dean is not so quick to believe him, but he was in no state to argue.

     "Look, I'm late for something," he snaps. "I'm going to get pulled over if I drive my car when it’s like this."

     Castiel drops his cigarette and puts it out with his shoe.

     “I think they would be lenient considering you’re taking it straight to a mechanic,” he says.

     Dean is frozen.

     He knows he never mentioned the Auto Clinic.

     He knows he never mentioned being a mechanic.

     He knows Castiel had _no_ way of knowing where he was going. There is no explanation for it. Dean just starts to feel nauseous before the man speaks again.

     “You seem to care a great deal about your vehicle. It makes sense that you would get it fixed right away.”

     There is a strange look in his eyes.

     “I need to go.” He gets into the car and digs around in the back seat. There’s an old white towel that he uses to hang outside the driver side window.

     “You’re leaving your car here?” Castiel seems surprised. Dean gets out of the car and locks it up.

     “For now. I’ll call a tow truck when I find someone with a goddamn phone.” His remark is an obvious jab at the smoker. He turns his back to Castiel and starts heading down the road. “If I find out you’ve even _breathed_ on my car, I’ll kill you,” he calls over his shoulder.

     “Can I give you a ride into town?” the man raises his voice to be heard.

     “Like hell. I’d rather walk.” Dean snaps.

     And he does.

 

 

     Bobby is working outside on a Ford when he hears shuffling footsteps on the gravel. He is surprised to see Dean walking up the road.

     "Good Heavens, boy! Where have you been? Where's your dang car?"

     "Sitting on the side of the road waiting to be towed." Dean mumbles. "Hit a deer."

     The old man's eyes soften beneath the shadow of a baseball cap and he closes the hood of the truck he was working on.

     "How bad is the damage?" he dares to ask. Dean sinks into a nearby lawn chair, despite how uncomfortable it is.

     "Busted quarter panel, broken headlight, and the front bumper is hanging off." He has to stop himself from sounding too heartbroken. It was just a car, after all.

     "Damn, son. I'd hate to see the other guy." Bobby raises his brow, but Dean does not comment on the condition of the deer. "Well, nothing we can't fix. Let's close up shop early and get a tow over there."

     "Bobby, you can't! It's hardly noon!" Dean argues.

     "And we've got a Chevy to pick up. Don't argue with me, boy. I'll win." The old man's voice is stern, but he's smiling. "I don't want you to owe some truck-drivin' lunatic to drag your car across town when we got a tow truck here for free."

     Dean murmurs his thanks and follows him inside. Sometimes it's hard for him to accept help, even from family.

 

 

     The Impala is left at the shop and Dean has no other choice but to borrow Bobby's old pickup truck. It looks like a pile of scrap metal and jerks like its humping the road, but he doesn't complain. Even though the radio doesn't work.

     The drive to the hospital is particularly unpleasant. He walks into Sam's room looking worse than he had left the afternoon before, despite getting a full night's sleep. Sam frowns when his brother slumps into the visiting chair.

     "Rough day?" he guesses.

     "You have no idea."

 

 

     Dean is pushing Sam's wheelchair through the garden. There are thick clouds gathering overhead; a storm threatening to unleash its anger on the meager town of Lawrence. He ignores them, silently hoping that Bobby's truck didn't have any leaks in the roof. Sam is babbling on about a documentary he watched that morning, but the subject escapes Dean's head. He tries to pay attention, but his mind keeps wandering to other things.

     "There's a new physical therapist working with me. She's really nice," Sam begins. This part catches his attention. Sam never talks about women.

     "Uh oh, I've seen that look before," his brother teases, leaning over his brother's shoulder to examine his face. "Are your cheeks always that red, Sammy?" For the first time in a long while, Dean hears his brother laugh. Not a chuckle, not a defeated chortle, but a sincere, loud laugh. It's like music to his ears, and he craves more. "Come on, kiddo. Fill me in! Is she hot?" He lowers his voice. "Is she giving you sponge baths?"

     "Dean," Sam whines, covering up his laughs. "I told you, she's nice."

     "Nice can mean a whole lot of things."

     "Okay, she's very intellectual."

     "Leave it to my little brother to use words like _intellectual,_ " Dean snorts.

     "Fine, she's pretty." Sam moves his fingers through his hair like he does when he's nervous. "But that's not why I like her."

     "Aha! You just admit it."

     "What? No! _No._ Not like that. I mean she's nice... pretty... and she's really smart, but..." He makes a pained expression. "You know, man. It's just nice to talk to some new people."

     Dean leaves it at that and returns to their stroll around the garden.

 

 

     The rain comes sooner than he had hoped. Dean rushes his brother inside but cannot escape the downpour from ominous clouds overhead. They are both soaking wet and Sam's nurse scolds him for being careless. Fortunately, Sam didn't seem to think so. He was laughing the whole way into the hospital, shaking droplets of water from his hair like a wet dog. Dean decides to pocket this memory. It's a good one.

 

 

     Parallel parking the pickup was a lot harder than the Impala. He _may_ have nicked the front bumper of the car behind him, but Dean is too defeated to worry. He is tired and his clothes are still damp from earlier, making him cold. The run to the overhang all the way from the street is not a dry one.

     It's after ten.

     Dean makes a run for it. As if the sky was challenging him to a race against time, it unleashes a mighty roar of thunder. The man struggles to race up the hill, but the grass is slick and he almost falls twice. By the time the next roll of thunder comes around, Dean is safely under the overhang of the apartment complex, breathing hard and dripping wet yet again.

     "Gotta love those mid-July thunderstorms."

     Dean whips around and half expects to see a man in a trench coat. He is shocked to see another face instead.

     "Lisa," he breathes. "You're back."

 

 

     Looking around the apartment, he knows Lisa could not have been back for long. There are dozens of unopened cardboard boxes piled around the apartment. It is not how he remembers. The walls, once the brilliant color of mango, have been repainted bland shades of white. They are barren; picture frames that once lined the walls still in their boxes. Dean wonders if she will hang them again. The apartment was once full of life and color. Now it is dull and quiet, especially with muted thunder outside.

     It feels strange to be sitting at the kitchen table again.

     But Lisa is smiling, and the image paints over every memory he had of her before.

     "Ben?" Dean raises a brow.

     "Asleep," she merely says. "He's tired from the drive."

     Dean nods. Lawrence is a long way from Battle Creek, Michigan.

     "I didn't think you were coming back." His voice is nervous. Uncomfortable. "When _did_ you come back?" He wants to ask why, but he doesn't. The brunette sits across from him and rubs her forehead. The table is small. He could reach out and touch her, but he doesn't.

     "This afternoon. I came by your apartment but... I guess you weren't home."

     "Right... yeah, you know. Work." Dean doesn't know what else to say. It's been over a year.

     Lisa can feel the distance too. She brushes her fingers through long dark curls. Her hair is longer than Dean remembers.

     "Still working at the shop?" she wonders. They both glance down at the oil stain on his jeans.

     "Uh huh."

     It's awkward.

     _Why did I agree to come over?_

     "And Sam?" Her voice quivers.

     "Still in the hospital." He notices the flash of concern in her eyes. "There's no where else for him to go."

     "That's got to be expensive."

     "I manage."

     The silence between them is stiff. Rain beats down on the windows.

     "I ought to get back." Dean throws a thumb over his shoulder, motioning to the door. Suddenly there is a hand on his knee.

     "Please, stay," she whispers. There is longing in her eyes. "Just for the night?"

     Dean feels sick in his heart, but he forces his lips to say no.

 

 

     It's late. Dean skips a hot shower but changes out of his damp clothing. As he stands in the kitchen, debating on whether or not to eat the last microwave dinner in his freezer, the flashing green light on the answering machine catches his eye. Sighing, he reaches over and presses the button.

     Four new messages.

     First unheard message.

     _"Hey, brother."_ It's Benny's voice, an unmistakable husky tone. _"It's been a while, and you're still not answering your phone. Give me a call and let me know you're still kicking."_

     This was not the first message he'd gotten from Benny. One of these days he would call him back. Dean shook his head and went on to the next message.

     Next unheard message.

     _"Hi, Dean. It's Lisa."_ Had Dean not just seen the woman with his own two eyes, he would have choked at the sound of her voice on his answering machine. _"I know what I said before, but... Ben and I moved back home. To Lawrence. I know it's sudden, but please call me back, Dean. I..."_ There is a pause in the message. _"I miss you."_

Dean realizes he is holding his breath.

     Next unheard message.

     _"When I said you ought to take a day off, I didn't think you'd actually take my advice. Call me back, let me know you're okay."_

     That was Bobby, no doubt wondering why he was so late to work. Dean leans against the wall.

     Last unheard message.

      _"This the Lawrence City Hospital calling for Dean Winchester. Mr. Winchester, we have you down as the primary caretaker of a long-term patient here, Sam Winchester. We are pleased to tell you that his condition is stable and he may be released from our services at the end of the week. Due to the maximum occupancy of the hospital and the duration of his stay, his immediate release is required. Please come by and sign him out at the earliest convenience. Thank you."_

     The answering machine suddenly lay in pieces across the kitchen floor. Dean sinks to the ground, holding his head in shaking hands.


End file.
